


The biggest problem

by TheMagicMeep



Series: Trust and a lack thereof [12]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Background Relationships, Family Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:03:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1950879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMagicMeep/pseuds/TheMagicMeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England discovers yet another reason against letting his siblings stay over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The biggest problem

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old fic originally posted on my writing blog but tided up and edited for Ao3.

England would never describe himself as a morning person; he needed to have at least _a_ cup of tea and leisurely take the time to feel his way into the day with the aid of a morning newspaper before being hurled in at the deep end. Unfortunately his misguided charity in letting his siblings stay with him for the holidays meant that such an easy start to a Sunday morning was impossible.  

The most significant –though certainly not the _only_ \- problem to the arrangement was that Wales snored. Although England maintained that the sound that escaped Wales when he slept was more akin to a chainsaw than a snore had any right to be. It was rightly feared by each and every one of his siblings and anyone nation or not who’d had the misfortune to try and sleep anywhere near him. The rumour currently circling around the British Isles said that the sound had a life of its own and was capable –at least according to Cornwall- of following people around the house in order to torment them further.  The sheer volume of it had once led to North claiming he could hear it from Belfast and from the moment Wales’s head hit his pillow it never _stopped_.

So each night Wales’s siblings engaged in a race against time to get to sleep before the snoring began. It was a race that unfortunately for some was always doomed to failure.

Once asleep nothing short of an outbreak of the next world war could wake England or North and lucky sods that they were they could remain unaware and dreaming even through the very worst of it. Scotland and Ireland however had never been that lucky. Ireland had always slept lightly; like a spider the slightest noise could wake him which meant that once the assault had begun there was no chance of him getting any sleep. Scotland on the other hand was a hardened insomniac who took most of the night to fall asleep and had never quite managed to beat the snores.

Normal routine would have it that eventually both of them would be forced to give up on sleeping altogether and escape downstairs to relieve their host of their alcohol supply. England couldn’t even say he blamed them.  

But it was their exhausted and desperate faces that greeted England as he shuffled downstairs in his sensible slippers, checked pyjamas and fluffy dressing gown in search of his breakfast. As he wasn’t all that surprised to find them there he just busied himself putting the kettle on and bustling about the kitchen.

Ireland rested on the table; his long, freckled body slumped across England’s painstakingly laid tablecloth and his head on his arms. He was only wearing his boxers and though England would dearly have loved to have thrown him out for daring to dirty his kitchen with his unclothed body he let it go with the thought that at least Ireland had actually remembered to put on his underwear this time.

On the other side of the table Scotland sat crumpled into a chair, her red hair wilder than usual and impressive dark bags under her eyes. Her nightgown was in disarray and hung off one shoulder in a way that in any other situation England would deem too risqué for his kitchen.  She also paid a terrifying amount of attention into stirring her cup of tea which must have long since gone cold.

“Do you two want anything to eat?” England asked finally, feeling something akin to pity as he took in the state of them.

Scotland looked up wearily at the sound of his voice and stared blankly at him for a moment. Just when he began to doubt that she was awake enough to understand she nodded slowly and elbowed her older brother hard in the ribs to get his attention.

Ireland’s face when he finally surfaced with a groan was the very picture of sleep deprivation; he looked, thought England, like death warmed up. He peered blearily at his brother before declaring that he desperately needed coffee then flopped back down on the table without another word.  

By the time England had made breakfast, fed his brother his coffee and watched as Ireland narrowly avoided ending up face first in Scotland’s toast the snoring _still_ hadn’t stopped. England, despite the fact that he was capable of sleeping through it, fought the desire to storm upstairs to kick his brother out of bed and leave him to his older siblings’ tender mercies. It would be a lot like leaving a man to the wolves, if the wolves happened to be sleep deprived and bordering on homicidal. 

His jaw clenched and he tried to will away the tension bubbling under his skin as he boiled the kettle yet _again_. Anger wouldn’t make Wales shut up but it might just spoil the taste of England’s tea.

He could take no chances.

“How does Belgium handle it?” Ireland asked his voice hoarse and muffled by the tablecloth.

England stared deeply into his drink as though somehow it would impart the knowledge to him; sadly though not unsurprisingly the tea offered no inspiration. He let out a heavy sigh that made him sound alarmingly as though he was deflating and shot a nasty glare in the direction of Wales’s bedroom.

“Unless she has industrial quality earplugs I have no idea” he said irritably, long scarred fingers tightening around the mug in his hand and thin lips pressed into a thin white line.

There was yet another rumble from upstairs and England slammed his mug down with more force than was strictly necessary, sending tea fountaining into the air and all over his table. Beside him Ireland folded up even further with a low, pained groan. It was a miracle that the council hadn’t come round yet to investigate the cause of his neighbour’s noise complaints yet England reflected bitterly as he tried to mop up the remains of his drink.

“I think we should smother him” Scotland offered suddenly, the light in her eyes slightly manic and sounding dangerously close to hysteria.

 “That might be a bit extreme” England replied mildly, finishing off the rest of his tea and edging slightly away from his sister. “You know he’d just mope around when he revived” he paused a moment looking pained “and probably write some long angsty poem about the pain of _betrayal_ ”.

Scotland deflated with a huff; “you’re right” she muttered reluctantly then rubbed at her eyes with a half sobbed “I just want to fucking _sleep_ ”.

Cautiously England reached over and awkwardly squeezed her shoulder stopping the moment that she looked at him with wide dark eyes. She looked a step beyond exhausted so when she listed sideways to use him as a handy pillow he said nothing, only wrapped an arm around her to keep her from slumping to the floor in a heap.

Beside them Ireland let out a muffled snort and surfaced enough to speak clearly. “Believe me it’s getting more and more appealing to smother the noisy bastard” he groaned “and somebody please tell me why I didn’t stay at a hotel again?”

Scotland raised her head from England’s soft dressing gown clad shoulder, blinking as she fought to keep her eyes open. “For much the same reason I didn’t” she looked at him pointedly “you’re skint”. 

Ireland scoffed, “you’re not skint you’re just…” he frowned “what’s the word Artie?”

“A skinflint?” England supplied drily.

“I prefer the term frugal” replied Scotland, lazily giving Ireland the finger before returning to using England as her own personal pillow.

England coughed, drawing his sibling’s attention and gestured at the door where Northern Ireland was standing, leaning against the doorframe.  “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company this early in the morning?” he asked coolly.

It was a perfectly reasonable question considering that North normally considered getting up at any time before midday as something that only happened to other people.

 “Wales is getting up” growled the young nation as he stormed into the room and flung himself down at the table. He at least appeared to have slept at some point, even if he now sported a truly impressive bedhead and glowered at the table top until England slid a cup of tea in his direction. He then raised his head to grunt thanks in his brother’s direction and did a horrified double take when he spotted Ireland’s state of undress.

 “What the fuck old man?” North hissed in disgust, recoiling as though Ireland’s near nakedness was contagious “I didn’t need to see your wrinkly old hide with my breakfast”.

Ireland raised a ginger eyebrow at him across the table, before unfolding enough to lazily shoot a crude gesture in North’s general direction.

North opened his mouth to retaliate with something no doubt completely unsuited to England’s kitchen table but England cut across him with all the subtleness of a freight train.

“Don’t argue at my fucking table” he snarled his voice like a whip crack and eyes dangerously narrow “or I swear to God I will put you in the bedroom next to Wales next time”.

The sudden silence was deafening.  

It was only broken when Wales marched into the room looking well rested and disgustingly cheerful. England bit back the desire to throw the milk jug at him for daring to be smiling and chirpy before ten on a Sunday morning. 

“Morning” Wales said brightly, busying himself with making his breakfast.

“Morning” chorused England and North with a great deal less enthusiasm. They watched him noisily bustling around with the same sort of grim fascination normally only given to condemned men. Ireland had flopped back across the table but was following his brother’s movements like a snake.

England was pretty sure Scotland had fallen asleep, her head slumped on his shoulder and fingers curled into his thick bathrobe. He just hoped she wasn’t drooling.

It was a miracle that North wasn’t taking a picture but then again even _he_ had to have enough of a survival instinct to know that down that path lay nothing but pain.  Wales however _had_ noticed judging by the look he shot at his sleeping sister. England just shrugged, careful not to wake Scotland, who if woken was likely to try and take Wales out with nothing more than a teaspoon and sleep deprived rage. It was not unlike tiptoeing around a sleeping dragon.

Ireland’s glare intensified as Wales sat down and North moved closer, rested a small hand on his brothers’ broad, freckled shoulder and muttered something quietly in his ear.  Whatever he said made Ireland relax back into his seat with a roll of his eyes. England meanwhile mentally resolved to pay for North’s next driving lesson. 

Unfortunately Northern Ireland’s good work was destined to be thrown headlong out of the window the moment his Welsh brother opened his mouth. 

“Rough night? Wales asked sympathetically.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone is wondering North was reminding Ireland that if he strangled Wales he would probably have to look forward to passive aggressive poems being thrown at him every day for the foreseeable future. 
> 
> It’s really not worth it


End file.
